From behind, I cut her a wide, red smile – so angry was I that she had dared call me rogue. She is the daughter of my Lord’s enemy. Her blood now paints my forearm and leg. She exhales her last through folds of flesh parted by my blade. Blood-flecked spittle sprays, and the sound echoes in my mind. I am dead once word of my failure reaches the King. He’ll have my head boiled and spiked outside his gate, a warning to others about self control. There’s no place to hide. With one swift slash, two lives have ended.

The siege lasted a fortnight. Now, all had perished except them. He had escorted the Earl, Countess and the boy up the north tower steps. Before dawn, rhythmic pounding and Germanic shouts foretold their doom. Now, a barbarous roar as the tower door below crashes inward.

Sir Gareth of Sussex waits. Across the stone room, the royals cower in a dark corner. The grunts and growls grow louder as they ascend — shouts Edmund doesn’t understand but knows they mean death.

He spreads his stance, gripping the longsword with both hands. The first is nearly decapitated, but there are so many.

Jarkal cracked his whip and the slaves moved forward. Ten miles more and he’d collect his pay.

A massive Jenda stepped out from behind a tree. “Slaves mine,” he gurgled.

Jarkal drew his sword and advanced. “Not today, Brute!”

The Jenda swung its club. Jarkal was caught off guard by the speed and violence of the assault and he crumpled. He watched from the ground as the slaves mobbed the beast and choked it to death with their chains.

Jacques awoke amongst scattered bodies. His head throbbed where the mace had struck. Nearby, a crow alit on a dead soldier’s chest, plucked an eyeball, just like Laura would pluck vine-ripened grapes. His hand squeezed bloody muck. He envisioned the rich soil of his farmland. He grabbed limbs of the dead, pulled himself forward. He’d crawl back to Laura.

“This leather is stifling and stinks of sweat,” complained Arlen as he marched.
“Be glad for it,” grumbled his commander, Fagen. “It will save your life one day.”
Suddenly, a volley of arrows arced over the berm and rained down upon the road.
Fagen was taken in the neck, his dying words an unintelligible gurgle.
Twice, arrows bounced off the thick boiled hide that covered Arlen’s chest.
A third, however, pierced his unprotected skull.
Later, as Arlen lay dead, an enemy archer prepared to claim his armor.
“Leave it, Kern,” grumbled Kund, his commander. “Find a helm.”

Her green eyes danced with excitement as she knelt half naked in front of the King. She bowed her head but reverted her eyes back to him sheepishly. The King moved closer and put his hands to her head and smiled. Her milky white breasts heaved with anticipation. She could tell by his trousers that the King was ready to submit. She put one hand on his bulge and the King closed his eyes, mouth parting. She plunged the knife into his neck. The sound of the gushing blood pleased her, for she had always loved the Queen.

Yallen was unarmed, but he would prove that a weapon doesn’t make a man.
Screams from the tavern signaled that the slaughter had begun. Through the door he saw old Marta vomit red steel.
A warrior laughed as he removed his sword from the back of her head.
“Yaaarrrggghhh!” screamed Yallen, and he ran into the fray, swinging a fist and smacking the invader’s metal-clad chest.
The bloody sword came around and sliced off the top of Yallen’s head. As he fell dying, he thought only that he had proven what an unarmed boy could do.

The door was jammed. He could hear noise inside. Sounds of struggling, of fighting. His heart pounded against his ribcage, eyes watered and dampened his cheeks. The village was in flames at his back, townsfolk screamed into the sky, cursing, wishing, regretting. The King’s death rattle sounded like a siren through the thick wooden door and he stopped thrusting his shoulder against it. It was over. He looked down at his blade, sopping with crimson, and his lips turned down — a bandit who once broke bread with the king.

The sound of jingling awoke the King from his slumber. He searched around the room and laid eyes on a shadowed figure. It moved closer and his eyes focused on the knife.
“You made me walk on needles. You thought my torture was funny. FUNNY!”
The figure’s painted face contorted as he let out a boisterous laugh and put the knife blade upon the king’s neck. With one swift motion he slit the King’s throat and to the tune of blood gushing and jingling bells he sang “I may have been your jester, but I am no fool.”